


Pick a Star on the Dark Horizon

by mangomunkki



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Heart of Thorns Spoilers, Introspection, M/M, firn deals with the whole HoT mess, idk if that needs to be tagged anymore considering how old it is but im still tagging it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24969229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangomunkki/pseuds/mangomunkki
Summary: "The call of the dragon was easily ignored during the day, just a sweet crooning at the back of his head. He could drown it out, focus on his duties or an ongoing conversation. During the nights, however, there was no release, no relief. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could hear the dragon whispering in his thoughts."--The Commander of the Pact is left without his second half as they move on Maguuma
Relationships: Trahearne/Male Player Character (Guild Wars), Trahearne/Player Character (Guild Wars)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Commander Firnüel





	Pick a Star on the Dark Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> soo it's 2020 and I've fallen back into the GW2 hole I was in back in 2015, but this time I brought a shovel and by god do I keep digging. this game has consumed both my waking hours and my creative spirit. damn you trahearne, you amazing plant man you.  
> title from 'The Call' by Regina Spector

When he first, personally, heard the call of the dragon, he was alarmed, but simply grit his teeth and pressed on. They had a much larger problem on their hands, and this certainly was not the first time his will was tested. He’d get through this, just like the other trials. He could focus on the worse aspects of this later, when he didn’t have a panicking group of soldiers on hand. He could hear the murmurs of discontent, as some of the sylvari among the Pact’s ranks voiced aloud their fears of turning, or, worse yet, gave in to the call and had to be cut down by their comrades. Straightening his back, he stood tall, viewing over his battalion. “Remember where you come from, remember why we’re here. We came here to vanquish this dragon, not join its ranks!"

His words seemed to sink in, some of the most obvious skittishness of his troops vanishing. Once again, Firnüel was glad most of the Pact’s sylvari soldiers had been assigned under his command, as he could only imagine the situation would look like to someone not hearing the maddening chant of the dragon themselves. As it was, his unit trusted him and his orders – after all, he had never led them astray before. They would be just fine. He’d keep his people safe.

Firnüel turned his gaze skyward, eyes following the fleet of air ships passing over them. He could only hope Trahearne was fine, but he’d see him soon.

The thorny vines shooting up from the ground and piercing the sails crushed that hope.

He refused to give up hope as they finally reached the crash site, ironically not too far from the rendezvous spot they’d agreed on. He knew Trahearne was strong, resourceful, and he would surely survive. Even in an unknown, hostile environment, with a dragon influencing his thoughts, as well as most of the people around him. And having crashed from the cloudy heights, hitting at least a few trees on the way down, judging by the state of the wreckage. Surely.

Firnüel pushed aside another still-smouldering beam of wood, to find the command cabin empty, the glass windows caved in and the control panels sparking. With a sigh, he curled his hand around the beam, taking in the sight for a few seconds before letting it fall again. “Nothing to be found here. Move on!” Where were you, Trahearne?

A week with nothing.

“We’ll have to share stories over drinks next time we have a chance to catch our breaths.” Oh, how far ago that day in the Silverwastes felt now. Despite the situation rapidly unfurling around them, Firnüel had seen the determined glint in his beloved’s eyes, heard the assurance in Trahearne’s voice as he told him it was going to be just fine and they’d reunite again soon.

Gripping his hand tighter around the worn handle of his sceptre, Firnüel pushed past the urge to reminisce, tapping once again into the magic deep inside him. Push on. Maybe the next camp would have better news for him.

The days were a pain, drudging ahead in the damp rainforest heat, trying to avoid anything larger than a short skirmish with the Mordrem troops heavily dug in. Firnüel had left unsaid the real reason he didn’t want to provoke a fight, using his lightly armoured state and desire to travel quickly whenever someone asked him.

Of course, most could probably tell that was not the real issue, considering these people knew him as The Commander of the Pact, hero of Claw Island and Slayer of Zhaitan – he’d done all of those in light armour, it wasn’t like this was anything new to him. The truth was, whenever they ran into a patrol of sylvari-turned-Mordrem, he feared having to see their disfigured faces. He feared one day he’d turn over a corpse and see those familiar, golden yellow eyes looking back at him.

  
The nights, however, were worse. The call of the dragon was easily ignored during the day, just a sweet crooning at the back of his head. He could drown it out, focus on his duties or an ongoing conversation. During the nights there was no release, no relief.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he could hear the dragon whispering in his thoughts. Whenever they moved closer to the heart of the jungle, after an exhausting day fighting their way inwards, the assault against his consciousness left him shaking. Like a new-birthed leaf, he curled into a tight ball on his bedroll, clasping his wrists to make sure he wouldn’t be able to reach his weapon. After those nights, his participation in banter was even sparser than usual, but no one dared comment on it.

Sometimes Firnüel wondered if this was all worth it.

Tearing another spiky vine loose from his arm, he made a face as he tossed it to the ground and stomped on it until it stopped squirming. Why would they waste their time, efforts and manpower in something this useless? The jungle didn’t want them here, it repelled them and rebuffed their attempts time and time again. Surely, it would be easier to just lay down his weapon, let the dragon in and follow the song to its source.

Who knew, maybe doing that would lead him to Trahearne, too. He had all but accepted it, already. They had had no luck finding any of the people on his airship; Zojja, Logan and Eir were all still missing. The Mordrem had them, and had Trahearne, for sure. He could find them this way. Not like his turning would be a big loss for the Pact, either – or what little remained of it. After all, what use was a second-in-command who lost his Marshal?

“Boss?” Braham’s deep timbre cut through his ears, causing him to flinch and shake his head. “Rox found these old ruins further ahead. Wanna go check them out?” Firnüel unfurled his hands from the fists they’d been clenched in, clicking his tongue at the deep grooves his fingernails had dug on his palms. “Yes, just give me a moment.”

After a few months, he didn’t even dare really think on it anymore. If they found their missing people, who knew what state they’d be in, after this long. Still, though, Firnüel dreamed. He doesn’t hope, anymore, no, hope has no place this deep in the jungle thickets, but he dreamed. He dreamed of finding Trahearne, alive, unharmed. He just wanted to see him again.

But not like this.

Oh, pale mother, not like this.

The sickening crunch as he plunged whatever is left of Caladbolg deep into Trahearnes chest thankfully cut through the pained scream filling the air. Firnüel’s senses felt dulled, like in a haze. Diluted. Suddenly exhausted, his legs gave out from under him, like they were suddenly too weak to hold him up. His whole body felt suddenly so, so tired and heavy. The ground underneath him crunched as he all but crumbled to a heap. Sitting there, trying to get his bearings, he could hear nothing but his blood rushing in his ears. And sobbing. Someone’s crying?

Firnüel lifted a hand to wipe his face clean, it coming back stained with a mixture of blood-sap and tears. Oh. That someone was him, then.

He didn’t feel the rough bark of the hand on his shoulder, lifting him up and guiding him away. He only found out about it afterwards, as Canach made another of his jokes to veil the concern obvious in his statement. In hindsight, it made sense – he would’ve probably grown roots had he been left there.

The title of the ‘Knight of Thorn’ rung hollow when the Pale Tree bestowed it upon him some months later. It was wrong. It was not meant _for him_. He was no knight, he was only someone picking up the pieces afterwards, trying to patch up a sword which should be allowed to rest. He couldn’t voice these thoughts aloud, though, so he just bowed his head.

It took him months to work up the courage to actually try casting anything with the reforged Caladbolg. Whenever asked about it, he would deflect with some comment about learning to use his staff in his spells more, or about him being hesitant to try out the fire-based scourge magic with a plant weapon.

The honest truth, though? He was afraid.

Afraid of what, he still wasn’t sure. Afraid of the memories the weapon carried. Afraid of not being worthy of it, despite the test he’d been through getting the components. Maybe both. 

Today, though, he’s decided it was time. He’s not sure why, or how, or, what prompted him to do so – he just feels it’s right. Sitting on a cliff somewhere decently private in the Caledon forest, he looks down to his lap, taking the weapon in properly for the first time.

They had not, in the end, managed to salvage much of the sword. Pretty much all that had remained was the handle and a couple of jagged inches of the blade, shattered and useless. This had suited Firnüel just fine, as he had no intentions of wielding Caladbolg as a sword – well, truthfully, when it was being reforged, he had fully intended to never use it.

He runs a thumb along the grooves of the hilt, playing with the petals of the lily flowers entangling themselves with the bark. The sceptre feels foreign and familiar all at once, and he takes extra care when wrapping his fingers around the haft for the first time, as if afraid it’d shatter. With a deep inhale, he grips the wood a bit tighter, reaching for his magic before he has the chance to get cold feet.

He settles for a simple summon spell, something he’d known since the Pod. He takes time weaving the spell, abandoning all the usual shortcuts he uses while needing to quickly raise a minion on the field. All prepared, he dips into his internal supply of magical energy, channeling it from his hands to the sceptre.

A breeze trails along his left cheek, jolting him out of his carefully constructed mindset as he abandons his spell. The halfway there shadow wraith dissolves into fine dust, blowing away in the spring breeze as Firnüel lifts up his free hand, trailing along the wind's path with a shaking finger. His touch ghosts along one of the ferns running alongside his jaw, tapering off up to the tip of his ear. The feeling of touch along that line is familiar – the slight asymmetry of his face had intrigued Trahearne up to no end, and he’d spent probably hours trailing along that very spot.

  
Blinking off the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes again, Firnüel drops his eyes to the sceptre laying on his lap. This feeling had been long gone, left to rot along with the Mordrem in Maguuma, but now, with a smile stretching out his cheeks once again, Firnüel dares hope.

Maybe carrying Caladbolg’s previous owners with him was not so bad, after all.


End file.
